“¿Y tu mamá quien le va ayudar a subirse al carro?”

“I am,” I reassured him, “but I want to get you settled first.”

“OK. OK. Lo que tu digas. Tu mandas.”

Strapping the seatbelt around my dad that morning was a lot easier because this time he didn’t try to help.

“Déjame ayudarte, Negra,” he would say, as he tried to lift his arms out of the way only to slap my glasses off. Or tried to pull the seatbelt across his chest but never succeeding to insert the metal clip in the socket on the first try. Or the second. Or third.

“¡Chinga’o! Esta mugre jodida nomás no quiere.”

“Here let me do it,” I’d plead, trying hard not to sound impatient.

Today, there was none of that hassle. I got him into the car with no problems and the seatbelt clicked on the first try. I looked at him, smiled, and thought, “Here we go.”

Once Mom got in the front seat, she took out her rosary and started praying. She was in no mood to talk to me, so I left her alone.

Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.

“¿Ya te informaste si va venir el Prieto?” Dad asked. “¿Y tu hermana?”

“No, Dad. They won’t be there.”

Mom didn’t hear us. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.

“Dale despacio, Negra, pa’ ver la casa de lejos,” Dad instructed me. The recent rains had left the yard at 906 E. Edwards looking lush, a rarity for this yard. Mom’s multicolored bird houses, mailboxes, and flowers contrasted nicely against the green background.

“¿Como se ve mi Coyol, Mariana?,” Dad called out to Mom, referring to his canna lily. “¿Está brotando o no?”

She didn’t bother to look in the direction of the bell-shaped, salmon-colored flowers, so I answered for her.

“Yes, Daddy. It’s looking nice.”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Dad’s Coyol is looking really nice.”

“Sí. Estuvo bien que la plantamos allí cerca de la ventana para que la pudiera ver mejor,” she said.

“Attaboy, Mariana!” Dad agreed.

   Ave María, llena de gracia, el Señor está contigo…

When we got to 7^th Avenue, I knew what he would say. I pulled down on the turn signal.

“Dale pa’ la otra casa, Negra, pa’ ver como está el pecan tree de Danny.”

The pecan tree my brother planted for him at their other house was Dad’s most prized possession. He’d shut me up quickly whenever I’d bring up selling the house on 309 W. Nueces – the house where my siblings and I grew up.

“Mientras que yo esté vivo, esa casa no se va a vender,” he declared.

Heading south on 7^th, we saw a stout woman in short-shorts walking on the sidewalk. Dad waved toward her and shouted, “¿Que pasó, Mariana? “¿Pa’ donde vas?”

Ever since we were little, Dad had always called out to gorditas using Mom’s name. I cringed each time because I knew it would piss her off. Most of the time, she would strike back with, “Cállate el osico, viejo chinga’o.”

This morning she ignored it. I still cringed.  

I drove toward their other house on the opposite side of town. We call that house on West Nueces Street “Dad’s house.” We moved into that house when I was in 5^th Grade. After we were all on our own and Mom finally had had enough of the smell and the mess left by Dad’s fighting roosters in the backyard coops, she moved into their house on East Edwards Street – the first house they owned – while Dad stayed in the West Nueces house.

“I’m going to go Mom’s house,” we’d say, or “Let’s meet at Dad’s house.”

We used to say that our parents never got along better than when they lived in their respective houses.

I drove west on Lake Street. Just past the traffic lights, Dad noticed that the Fina gas station was open.

“Haber si compras unos tíquetes de lotería, Negra,” Dad said. “Nunca sabes si ahora es cuando le pegamos.”

“Mega or Powerball?”

“Compra el que tenga más,” was his usual reply. “You never know, Negra. We might hit it. You never know.”

I knew we’d never hit it, but I nodded in agreement.

I saw a man exit the service station.

“¡Pariente!” Dad shouted.

“¿Quién es?” I asked.

“No conosco al pela’o ese,” he admitted without a trace of embarrassment.

He greeted all men with pariente. Most of the time, they were never relatives. Many times, he didn’t even know the men. It was just a courtesy he paid them.

I turned right on Avenue B. As we passed the blue house about one block in, Dad asked, “¿Y Ms. Mata? ¿No has hablado con ella?”

“Sí está bien, Dad.”

“¿Todavía es principal?”

“Sí.”

“¿Y su chavalío?”

“Está creciendo.”                                     

“¡Que tal la Ms. Mata!”

Mom turned to look at me as if I was crazy.

Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.

At West Nueces Street, I turned left, driving slowly so Dad could get a good look at the house, which sits on a half-acre corner lot.

It was a beautiful house.

Built in 1938, it had character. Original fireplace. Original wood floors throughout the living room, hallway and dining area. Two sunrooms and an office with built-in shelves.

“Chinga, nunca me crecieron los crepe myrtles como yo quería,” he said sadly. “¡Mira como ha crecido el pecan tree que me dió mi güero!”

He was right. The pecan tree Danny had planted not long before he died in 2012 was getting tall, becoming a dominant presence in the yard. It was Dad’s prized possession. The Coyol came close, but that pecan tree meant everything to him.

“¿Y tu tía,” Dad asked as we drove past his sister’s house, “¿La vamos a levantar nosotros o qué?”

Tía Luisa lived in a small green house next to Dad’s house. She and my grandmother, now dead, had moved into it not long after my parents bought theirs.  

“Rob y Eliseo ya vinieron por ella.”

“¿Que, qué?”

“Rob and Seo already picked her up.”

“What?” Mom sounded perturbed that I interrupted her rhythm.

“Nothing.” I didn’t feel like explaining things to her.

We’d driven past the house and were now back on Lake Street.

Dad began to sing.

A ti te quiero mujer
No le hace que seas paseada
Te quiero porque te quiero
Porque me nace del alma

I started to cry.

The lyrics took me back in time. I could see my dad driving south on Highway 83 towards Asherton, the window open and hot air blowing across his face.

Tu no sabias querer
Porque eras mujer paseada
Y te burlabas de mí
Cuando de amores te hablaba

Before ‘Buelita and my aunt moved to Crystal City, Dad would visit them every weekend. Usually he’d take groceries, but mostly he’d just go to check on them. I loved going with him to Cheto because they had boxes and boxes of old comic books, a large pot filled with marbles of all sizes, and two doors at the front of the house. Two doors! I never understood why old houses had two doors that opened to the front room.

Pero llegaste a saber
Que con mi amor no jugabas
Y con el tiempo supiste
Lo mucho que tú me amabas

My favorite memory had always been of me lying across the front seat with my head on Dad’s lap and legs across Mom’s. Back when cars were huge, before seat belts laws were enforced. Dad would push the hair away from my face and stroke my head with his rough, calloused hands, all the while singing Ramón Ayala’s Mujer Paseada.

Tú despreciabas mi amor
Cuando en tus brazos lloraba
Pero llegaste a quererme
Así como yo deseaba

Everyone was already there when we arrived. I was in no hurry to park the car.

“¿No se ve tu tía, Negra?”

I nodded.

“¿Y quien es ese?” Dad asked. “¿A poco es José?”

His name was Jesús, but I didn’t want to correct him. Not today. I simply nodded.

“Pobre José. Muy buena gente.”

Jesús, Dad’s caretaker, had become one of Dad’s closest friends.

I parked the car and helped Mom out first. Once I had her situated, I returned for Dad. When I opened the door to the back seat, I asked him, “You ready, Daddy?”

“I’m ready, Mi’ja,” he said confidently. “Let’s go.”

“OK.”

“Ayúdame a quitarme esta chingadera.”

“I got it. I got it.”

I unbuckled the safety belt and lifted him out of the seat.

“OK, mi negra. You got it?”

“Here we go, Daddy.”

I walked with Dad to where the others waited.

  “Man, Dad. You’re heavy.”

“Ya si no, Negra. Está cosa está hecha de puro fiero,” he said.

Mom and Tía Luisa were crying softly. Jesús, Rob, and Seo were waiting for us. Brother Dino said a prayer and sang a hymn.

I let Mom and Luisa give Dad one last bendición.

And before I lay my daddy down for the very last time, I kissed him. I kissed him again. And again.

“Bye, Daddy. I love you.”

I set the urn down as gently as I could. He was finally where he’d always wanted to be, with my brother.

“Thank you, Negra. Te lo agradezco con todo mi corazón.”